


At the Heart of the Wood

by beneighdict



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Legends, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nature Magic, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, i dont even have a plan for this story lets just see where it goes eh, i dont even know whats going on rn, i think, idk if i dont know what to tag anything ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneighdict/pseuds/beneighdict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an invalided military captain and doctor, suffering from PTSD, unbearable depression, a recently healed gunshot wound, and a psychosomatic limp. After returning to London to resume his civilian status, life is looking unbearably bleak and mundane....until he happens upon his great grandfather's journals, tucked neatly away in a box of things that once belonged to his now deceased parents. What he discovers within these journals leads him to the Isle of Wight in search of a mysterious creature that he only half believes is real. What strange forces await him at the heart of the wood?</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Heart of the Wood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bennyslegs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyslegs/gifts).



Legends are wily and mysterious things. Most are untraceable—no one knows how or where or why they once originated, but they are a driving force, an inexplicable part of our lives, whether we know it or not. They weave in and out of the very plane of existence, an integral thread in the fabric of life. No end, no beginning. Simply being. There are legends of magic, of mystical lands, of faerie and of spirits. There are legends of great kings and fair maidens and gods and goddesses and valiant warriors, men and women alike. But these legends are considered myths—tales. Bits of fun for an evening about the fire, when the guests are full of food and drink and itching for a song or two. They are nothing but stories.

Or so they say.

Every legend has basis in fact, although some more than others. This legend is one of those. The knowledge has been lost to all but a few, and those few have guarded it with their lives. It is not the sort of legend that passes from mouth to ear in taverns and travels from village to village. It is a quiet sort of legend, small and powerful and secret. If you are reading this, you have been granted the honour of holding this secret in the very palm of your hands. Read on and you will be responsible for the fate of many. You will learn of the lore that surrounds the oldest of forests, the wisest of sentient beings, but you will discover that such knowledge is as much a curse as it is a blessing. Tread carefully.

The legends lost tell of a creature, magnificent and imperious, that resides in the heart of the deepest, oldest forest of the Isle of Wight. Where the greens and browns are most vibrant, where the manmade paths disappear and the way winds in circles, safe passage known only to the inhabitants of the wood. The sun streams through the leaves, swathing the underbrush and the forest floor with soft sheets of translucent gold, glinting and reflecting in the perpetual dewy mist, evanescent and yet ever present. At night and into the wee hours, when the Moon is high atop her celestial pedestal and the Sun has gone below to rest his tired limbs, the creature prowls, sniffs, stalks. The body of a man, inhumanly tall, covered in blackish fur. Antlers protruding from his crown of blackened brambles, the face of hooves of a deer, his chest and limbs mottled with brown and gold and strange ritualistic markings. He sometimes carries with him a staff made of wood and moss and bits of jewelry and gold swinging from the peak of it, threads of something altogether otherworldly. Not only does he possess keen senses, but legend says that he possesses sight beyond sight, the ability to see--a third eye in the center of his forehead.

Some say he is the protector of the woodland creatures, of all the living things within his domain. He is ancient; he knows the names of every flower and every creature in his wood. He has walked the paths only he sees, and he has memorised where each leaf lies, where every vine hangs. He was watched the birth, growth, and decay of every living thing, and he understands the ways of the world fully. He is wiser than the most thoughtful of philosophers, cleverer than the most intelligent of strategists, and more dangerous than almost any force of good or of evil in all the world. He is nearly the last of his kind, old and tired and bitter. He has gone nearly three thousand years without contact from humanity. But now, this is changing. Now, someone searches for him, yearning to know what lies at the heart of his forest. Yearning to know, yearning to see what he is. He has managed to slip away for so long. But no more. No more secrecy. No more solitude. The seasons are changing. The winds are shifting.

He is being hunted.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock OR Fawnlock! Also, I don't know anything about anything, so please feel free to correct anything I write in this fic. 
> 
> Just a little something I've had sitting on the back burner for a bit! Everyone has been writing Fawnlock stuff, so I thought I might try my hand at a fic centering around my headcanons! I hope you enjoy this, Miss Paula! It's part of your birthday present!!!


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